Phoenix Rising
by CeeCeeSings
Summary: A Baxley "first kiss" fic. Takes place during the events of the show's finale a wee bit longer afterwards. There's a reason Phyllis checked her hair in the mirror prior to trying to catch Edith's bouquet! This is a companion to my Baxley story "60 Pubs in York". (Not required, but suggested, reading to catch nuances).
1. Lessons Learned

Chapter 1 – Lessons Learned

 **A/N: So, guys, thanks to everyone over on Tumblr for the great Baxley fic prompts (you can leave 'em in the comment section, too, if you have one!). Before I start working on the (amazing, fun, creative) Baxley story ideas I got, I really, really wanted to do this one: the story of their first kiss. I even went back and watched part of S6 Xmas episode, and there were so many great moments there I forgot, especially between Baxter and Thomas, that spoke volumes to her personal growth.**

 **Anyway, I hope you all like this. I loved writing 60 Pubs, but it wouldn't have been "in canon" to wedge a kiss into that story. I DO think, however, what unfolds in this little tale is at least plausible. And I _really_** **wanted to write that kiss!**

 **NB – The feathers are a thing from 60 Pubs. A kinda important thing. ;-)**

 **~CeeCee**

Downton Village School – Christmas Week 1925

He finished clearing the chalkboard, erasing the timeline that stretched across it. His students had enthusiastically lost themselves in the explorations of Sir Walter Raleigh the past few days, and he had lost himself in their joy. Teaching, it seemed, was what he was meant to do.

He carefully toured the classroom, which would be closed until the day after the New Year, making sure the shutters were latched and the floor was free from debris. He smiled around at the empty desks, then looked to his own, laden down with Christmas gifts and tokens from his students.

Those had surprised him. His grin broadened as he looked at the assortment of fresh fruits, chocolates, notes, and handmade cards. Becky Jenkins had even offered him a fresh goose from her da's farm. He had laughed, given her his father's address. He imagined the look on his face when the bird showed up at his door, thought briefly of Scrooge on Christmas morning.

Though school was out, he had little time to rest: he'd be back at Downton tomorrow and until school reopened. Funny, that; service, and his place in it, had been such an important part of his life. But now, he didn't much miss it, except for –

"Good afternoon, Mr. Molesley."

His heart jumped in his chest, and he turned from his holiday bounty. Phyllis Baxter stood framed by the doorway, her cheeks and the tip of her nose pink, snow dusting her hat and the shoulders of her coat.

"Miss Baxter! What a fine surprise!" He could hear the warmth, the affection, in his voice and did nothing to tamp it down; he'd been concerned, despite her assurances they would meet once he moved to the village, the slow but inexorable motion towards each other they had been making would halt; or worse, reverse.

But that had not been the case; much the opposite, actually. Granted, they did not see each other every day, as they had at Downton, passing in the hall, sitting together at meals, catching each other's notice with a glance or a smile. But he saw her several times a week, at least, and sometimes…oftentimes, these days, it felt like… _courting._

He hadn't expected to see her until he arrived at Downton tomorrow; his surprise left his delight unwrapped, like some of the treats sitting on his desk. She now entered the classroom, looking around with pleasure and interest. He'd shown it to her before, several times, but she always found something new to comment on. She finally settled her gaze on him.

"I had to stop in at the haberdashery, there's so much to be done before the wedding," she smiled at him, then saw the pile of goodies on his desk.

"Happy Christmas from all of your admiring pupils, Mr. Molesley!" She exclaimed, clearly delighted by his students' generosity. "How lovely, and how they must admire you, look up to you." Her gaze darted between the gifts and his face.

"I'm not sure I'd go _that_ far, Miss Baxter," he answered, feeling slightly giddy. "But they're a good lot, for the most part, these youngsters."

" _I'd_ go that far, Mr. Molesley," she replied. "But I know better than they do, perhaps. They are still learning how much you have to offer them."

For one mad, wonderful moment, he almost pulled her towards him, pressed his lips against hers. Then something caught his eye: her hat. A nice hat, dark blue. With a muted yellow band, a tiny clutch of faux holly berries adding an appropriate festive touch. And tucked carefully behind them, pressed against the curve of the hat, were two feathers: one gold, one red.

"Your hat…" he trailed off, thinking. Of the bird that rose from its own ashes.

She was still smiling at him, her face so open and warm. "I made it for myself, Mr. Molesley. I'll never claim to be an expert hat maker, but it turned out well, and it pleases me, all of the little pieces of it. Putting it together, after all this time. I'd never tried to, before, you see," she shrugged, a lovely, unselfconscious gesture.

They looked at each other for a long moment, until a trio of students hurried by in the hallway, calling out good-byes to him. She shook her head, then, laughed softly.

"Have you anything to bring all of these home? You'll need a sack the size of Father's Christmas'," her eyes were twinkling at him.

"I've nothing, I'm afraid," he managed. It was a wonder he could speak at all.

"Well, I've an extra, so you're in luck," she handed it to him, and they began carefully loading it with the trinkets and edibles on his desk. They worked in companionable silence for a few moments, and he brushed her hand with his as often as he dared.

 _Something was happening. No…not yet._ But it was about to. He could feel it, see it, like the boy he'd been, sitting on a sledge at the top of the highest hill in the village, exhilarated and terrified in equal measure. He'd been wrong, those months ago, when he left Downton, thinking they'd not see each other, or be in each other's lives, the way they had been.

It was just the balance had shifted: now they were just that close. Close enough to be teetering on the edge of something else, something more. He could feel himself tilting towards it now. The hill was waiting, the shocking wonderful journey of it. He could see it.

"There you are, Mr. Molesley," she handed him the bag, now full to the brim.

"Thank you Miss Baxter, I'll just grab my coat and hat, and walk home, to Downton."

"Oh, there's no need, Mr. Molesley, though I'd not say no to your company," she replied, and her cheeks bloomed pink.

"Then how can _I_ say no, Miss Baxter?" He retorted. "In any case, it'd not hurt to stop in to see Mr. Carson, make sure there's a livery waiting for me."

"Will it feel odd for you, do you think, Mr. Molesley, being back at Downton?" They started walking towards the great house.

"It might do," he answered, thinking. Feeling that wobble, the sled about to whoosh down, down, down. "But I'll get to see _you_ every day until the New Year, Miss Baxter, which I suppose will make up for it." He could hardly account for his boldness. But he didn't regret it.

She stopped walking, then let out a peal of laughter, that seemed to envelop her.

And he looked on, joined her: this remarkable woman, he finally understood would be his wife. He just had to give himself a little…push.

He felt confident he could manage it.


	2. Too Beautiful

She parted ways with him in the downstairs hallway, as he went off to find Mr. Carson. She focused herself as she headed towards one of the work rooms, clutching her bag of notions tightly. In essentials, the former footman wasn't all that different than he'd always been, since leaving Downton: still kind, enthusiastic and generous with his time, affection and knowledge.

But there was something _more_ to him, now. A confidence, that _she_ always felt was warranted, that he nearly always deflected. She thought of that moment, walking back in the swirling snow, when he admitted his pleasure at the prospect of seeing her every day, for the next ten days or so. Of his hand, frequently brushing hers, as they packed his Christmas treats.

As she set herself up at one of the tables, hanging her coat and hat on the rack in the corner, carefully organizing the ribbons, beads, feathers and buttons, she could almost see it, feel it, she had wanted it that badly:

 _His fingers, rather than simply brushing against her palm, holding tight. Her responding in equal measure to the pressure of them, signaling her heart's desire. Their bodies and mouths meeting, their parcels forgotten, apples and trinkets and bows and beads scattering across the snowy ground._

"You silly fool," she shivered as she whispered to herself, but she was smiling. Her voice was indulgent rather than chastising. Because she didn't believe that, not really. Falling in love with Joseph Molesley was the least foolish thing she'd ever done.

oooOOOooo

She got lost in the rhythm of her work, as she so often did. She loved sewing, creating, making things. And the Countess had impeccable taste, and was so appreciative of her skills. The simple pleasure of making something beautiful that hadn't existed before she set to the task never failed to fill her with contentedness.

She was bent over the neckline of the dress her mistress would wear to Lady Edith's wedding in a week or so, ensuring that the seed pearls were even and orderly, when Anna Bates entered the room, with her own stack of sewing.

"Afternoon, Miss Baxter," her fellow lady's maid sat across from her, and Phyllis stopped to stretch her neck and shoulders.

"You are looking _so_ well, Mrs. Bates," she replied, smiling. It was impossible not to; the woman exuded joy at her pending motherhood. "Though you must be getting anxious for the little one's arrival."

"Indeed I am, Miss Baxter, for several reasons! I am both absolutely ready and completely terrified for him to make an appearance, at last," Anna rubbed her stomach, laughed.

They both bent over their work for a few moments, each immersed in her own task, in companionable silence. She had always liked Anna well enough, but now that the Bateses were well and truly shed of the bad luck that hovered over them since she herself had arrived at Downton, she felt they were, if not already, then becoming friends.

And despite the lingering tensions between her husband and Thomas Barrow, she'd never seen Anna show anything but kindness to him. She thought of him now, wondering how he was getting on in his new position. She'd a letter from him; it sounded lonely, between the lines.

"Have you heard from Mr. Barrow recently, Mrs. Bates?" She asked at last.

"Mrs. Hughes says he's coming to the wedding. He's written to me a few times, but I worry he's not entirely happy," Anna shook her head, frowned at the headband she was working on for Lady Mary.

"I feel the same, Mrs. Bates. Though right before he left, he spoke to me of your kind advice; he was determined to make a go of it, make a better man of himself," the women smiled at each other, but she could sense Anna's own sadness at Thomas' predicament, echoing her own. "You even inspired him to give _me_ some wise advice in turn."

She surprised herself, confiding even this to the other woman. The giddiness she couldn't shake today was bubbling up again, however, and she knew the reason: like a green girl, she wanted to talk about Joseph Molesley, to someone other than himself. If only obliquely, mentioning him sent thrills through her.

"Did he now? Did you take it, then?" Anna was grinning at her knowingly.

"I did, in fact," she replied. "Mr. Barrow isn't the only one who needed shed who he was, before, Mrs. Bates. It was good advice for _me_ , as well."

"My husband can attest to that as well, Miss Baxter, believe me," Anna rolled her eyes, a completely carefree gesture that did Phyllis' heart good to see. The couple had been through so very much.

Before she could think, she reached out and squeezed Anna's hand. "I'm so glad for you, truly, Mrs. Bates. I know you must be worried, but truly, it's wonderful to see you so happy."

The other woman was startled, but squeezed back. Anna's eyes suddenly rested on something across the room.

"Is that a new hat, Miss Baxter?"

"It is, Mrs. Bates," she rose to lift it from its hook. Had she been worried she'd not get to speak of Joseph Molesley? Silly, that. He was everywhere, it seemed. "I…I made it myself. I've not attempted it before, but I had some lovely notions and some spare time…so…" she trailed off, handing it across to the other woman.

"You never did this all yourself! It's _beautiful_ , Miss Baxter," Anna glanced across at her. "I am surprised her ladyship's not –" She abruptly stopped speaking. She was staring fixedly at the hat in her hand.

"Are you quite alright, Mrs. Bates?"

"Oh, yes, yes, sorry Miss Baxter, I am fine," she replied, letting out a deep breath. Now she was grinning at Phyllis, and there was warm knowledge in her eyes.

 _Of course._ She always wondered how he managed to find the feathers. Now she knew.

"It's only that, I suddenly realized: these feathers remind me _very much_ of ones I purchased for Mr. Molesley, last Christmastime," Anna paused, and Phyllis knew she expected to be stopped. But Phyllis was certain that whatever was happening, it couldn't be stopped. And she didn't _want_ it to be.

Anna finally continued. "He was very mysterious about their purpose, but in the end, after all he – both of you – had done for me and Mr. Bates, it seemed such a small request, and one I could happily and easily fulfill, I didn't press him for an explanation."

"And as I said, Miss Baxter – it's beautiful," she handed the hat back to Phyllis.

"Too beautiful to hide, I finally realized, Mrs. Bates," she stood, flushing, but oddly proud of her own boldness. She gently hung the hat back up, returned to the table.

They sat in charged silence for a few moments, questions and mild mischief writ large in Anna's expression, until they were interrupted by the man himself.

"Miss Baxter, Mrs. Bates! I imagine the pair of you will literally be working your fingers down, for next week, at least," he was standing in the doorway, smiling broadly at them.

"Mr. Molesley! It'll be so good to have you around for the holidays," Anna exclaimed.

"You are looking very well, Mrs. Bates! What an exciting time this must be, for you and Mr. Bates both," he grinned down at both of them.

"Thank you, Mr. Molesley," Anna answered. "It certainly _is_ an exciting time, Mr. Molesley, and likely not just for the Bates family. It's that time of year, I suppose. What's all that, then?" She gestured to his bag of treats.

"Gifts from his adoring students, Mrs. Bates," Phyllis interjected. She was enjoying herself immensely.

"I suppose we're the lucky ones, then, to have you back here, for a bit," Anna smiled at him, then at Phyllis. She wasn't the only one enjoying herself.

"That's terribly flattering, Mrs. Bates, though I am not entirely sure it's true," he stammered, and there was a flash of his old insecurity. He straightened himself and smiled directly at Phyllis. He seemed to calm, then.

"I'll see you both tomorrow, bright and early, then, ladies?" He tipped his cap to the pair of them, and was gone.

The two women worked in silence again, until Anna caught her eye. They both started giggling, and Phyllis found she couldn't stop. She didn't really want to.


	3. It's All About Timing

**Chapter 3 – It's All in the Timing**

Boxing Day, 1925

Timing was everything.

He mused on this as he headed into the village on his own, to eat a quick midday with his father, being in love was _very_ distracting. So was figuring out the best place and time to declare that love. And, well…

…he wanted her. Truly, completely, _honorably,_ of course, but still, sometimes, it was impossible to even _think_ of her without being driven to distraction, let alone being around her, every day, and not knowing exactly when and how he'd see her.

Working once again at Downton was tortuously intoxicating: he could bump into her at any random moment, sit next to her at breakfast, have a quick cup of tea with her in the servants' hall in the afternoon, and, sweetly, on Christmas night, lightly, oh-so-gingerly, take her hand as Lady Mary sang "O Holy Night". As he did, he thought back to the year before, when he'd not _quite_ gotten the courage to do so.

And now he felt both greedy and sobered. There was so much _more_ , to all of it, love, desire, courtship, then he ever imagined. He wasn't about to declare himself to her with the audience of the entire Downton staff at any given time somewhere nearby.

It was amusing to consider, but his independence, his _singleness_ , away from his former life of service, had allowed them to grow closer the past few months. They could take tea or lunch in the village on her day off, he could leisurely walk her back to the big house, then be on his own, to digest it all: a look, a smile, a laugh they had shared. He had needed that time, alone, he thought now.

 _But now I want to be with her. Permanently. We two._ He grinned as he approached his father's front door. The sledge at the top of the hill teetered just a bit more. He could feel it in his stomach, and high up in his chest.

He didn't even have time to knock before his father threw open the door.

"I heard you coming!" The elder Mr. Molesley exclaimed with a grin, patting his son's cheek, then looked confused. "And where's Miss Baxter, then? Weren't you going to bring her along, Joe?"

"That I was, Dad, but it's all madness and busyness up at the big house," he shed his coat and hat and followed his father into his tiny dining room. "I can only stay for a quick meal myself, unfortunately, and Miss Baxter and Mrs. Bates are up to their chins in all sorts of wedding finery that needs tending to, I'm afraid. I suppose it's not often that one becomes a marchioness." He laughed a little. He had bid both lady's maids farewell on his way to the village; they'd been in one of the work rooms, surrounded by so much half- and nearly-finished finery he was afraid to set foot inside it.

The two men sat and tucked into the luncheon his father's maid-of-all-work had set out for them, including the goose from the Jenkins farm. It was with real regret he looked across at the third place setting, as he'd sorely have liked to share this meal with both his father and Phyllis Baxter, who took great pleasure in each other.

He'd even thought that perhaps, on their walk back to Downton after the Boxing Day meal, he might gather up the courage to –

"It's a pity they're working you so hard this week, Joe," his father interrupted his wandering thoughts. "You and Miss Baxter both, the lot of you. As if you didn't put enough time into your teaching already."

"Ah, Dad, I don't mind helping out, they're a good lot up there," he shook his head, thinking of how warmly he'd been welcomed back by Downton's staff. It had felt good, like visiting a place he'd not known was home until he'd left. "And the extra wages can't hurt, that's for certain."

"I suppose they can't, especially if a man has plans, and I'm beginning to think – to _hope_ – that you do, Joe." His father put his fork down, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and looked closely at his son's face.

Joe's heart sped up; if he spoke his wishes, his desires, aloud to his father he'd have to take action on them. It would make them less ethereal, less like half-remembered dreams. He sighed, then smiled.

"I do have plans, Dad," he finally spoke, and the words were a relief, easier to say than he expected. That surprised him. "Plans regarding Miss Baxter."

"That's my boy!" His father's face opened up with such joy and excitement, he felt a lump catch in his throat. He was a dear, dear man, his father. "I've something for you, in that regard, Joe – wait a tick."

The older man jumped up from the table, in his haste leaving his napkin tucked into his trousers. Joe felt giddy and lightheaded. A bark of laughter escaped him. He was whooshing downhill now, wasn't he?

His dad returned, his left hand closed around something. He pressed it into his son's palm, and Joe opened it. On his palm sat a ring, a slim gold band set with a small glimmering oval stone, which looked like how he felt about Miss Baxter: not just one color, but many. Otherworldly, but real. He closed his fingers around it.

"That was your Mum's," his dad sat across from him, and now he pulled his napkin up, blew his nose with a loud honk. "I'd not enough to propose with that, you can be sure, but I gave it to your mother on our tenth wedding anniversary. Janie was well-pleased with it, I think, and so will Miss Baxter be, I hope."

"Dad, I –" he couldn't get any more words out. He brushed his tears away brusquely, thought of his mother. How well his father had loved her. He was beginning to understand it all, finally.

"Save your words, Joe, for the lady in question," his father patted his hand. "And when they finally stop running you ragged up in that yonder grand house, you find a quiet moment, and you tell her – and _ask_ her – what you will. Then, you both come see me, and we'll have a proper meal together, the three of us." His father began eating his lunch again, grinning over at him.

"Thanks, Dad. I mean it," he composed himself, carefully placed the delicate ring in his inner coat pocket. He picked up his fork, finishing his meal without really tasting it.

When they said good-bye at the door a half hour later, his dad patted his shoulder.

"You've always been good, lad, but she's made you better. She's made you _want_ to be better. It's as plain as your face in front of me, Joe. And it's more than most people get in life, even if you had to wait for it, m'boy."

"It was worth the wait, Dad. Every second of it."

oooOOOooo

When he got back to Downton he felt an eerie sense of peace wash over him. He entered the organized chaos of the downstairs with a small grin on his face. He had to change back into his livery presently before -

"Ah! Mr. Molesley, you've returned. I hope you enjoyed your lunch, but I'm glad you're back. Andrew needs some assistance with the dining room before dinner time," Mr. Carson's voice boomed out from his study.

"Indeed Mr. Carson, I'll just change and head up then, shall I?" He smiled as two young housemaids rushed by, linens piled in their arms. He passed the room the lady's maids had been working in before he left and looked in.

There she was. Bent over some elaborate headpiece, humming to herself. His heart was content. She felt his gaze, and glanced up.

"Mr. Molesley, welcome back," she smiled at him. "I hope your father is well? I was sorry to miss lunch with him. I hope you passed on my regards."

"I did Miss Baxter, and he _was_ sorry to miss you, but invited us back after the New Year," his hand wandered of its own accord to pat the small pocket where the ring was nestled. "We missed you at lunch."

"I missed being there," she held his gaze, even as her face flushed. "There's not enough time, in these busy days, is there?"

"I suppose not, but things will settle down, in a few days. There'll be a moment, for a deep breath or two, Miss Baxter. I'm sure of it."

"I think you're right, Mr. Molesley."

They gazed at each other, for just a moment longer, a moment that glimmered like the tiny hidden gem pressed close to his heart.


	4. Invisible Strings

**Chapter 4 – Invisible Strings**

 **Downton – December 30, 1925**

 **A/N: Listen, guys. I am enjoying the sweet tension here, but I'll not torture everyone. I was going to wrap everything up here, but I think it needs another chapter to be "right". So, one more to go after this, and I PROMISE it'll be complete before the weekend is through.**

 **~CeeCee**

 **NB: _Jane Eyre_ is one of my all-time faves. I've read it a dozen times, and I explored the idea of unseen threads which connect lovers in a previous Chelsie story. It felt appropriate here, as well. **

Something was happening, changing.

All week, especially since he'd returned from his father's on Boxing Day, she'd sensed it, something in Joseph Molesley, in his posture, the way he carried himself. Something unsaid.

When he spoke to her, at breakfast in the servants' hall, in passing in the hallway, she could tell there was so much he _wasn't_ saying. She loved seeing him here, and the way the sudden sight of him sent a jolt through her.

But there was something about him this week, especially. A focus, a calmness, a sureness. She knew, eventually, _soon_ , he would tell her all of these unspoken things. It was terrifying and exhilarating. That she had finally buried the woman she had been with Peter Coyle still startled her. She must remember to thank Thomas Barrow when he arrived for Lady Edith's wedding tomorrow. Change wasn't easy, often painful, but possible.

She understood that now.

She hurried past the kitchens, heading upstairs before the family's midday meal. Lady Rose's lady's maid had requested her help with some fussy beading on a headpiece, and she was a little behind in assisting her own mistress. She ran into Mr. Molesley at the stairs midway point.

"Miss Baxter," he smiled at her.

"Afternoon, Mr. Molesley," she responded, grinning back. It was impossible not to. "If you're coming from the dining room, that means I best hurry to her ladyship's room."

"You've some time, still. I saw you working with Lady Rose's maid. That was very kind of you. Lady Grantham cannot fault you for that," he was one riser above her, gazing downward, tray in hand. The stared at each other briefly, until he cleared his throat, broke the spell.

"I know I mentioned it earlier, Miss Baxter, but my father invited us to a New Year's lunch, when all of this madness has settled. Might we walk into the village together that morning? Tomorrow night will be the last night I'll be staying at Downton, in any case," he spoke without a trace of discomfort, his voice smooth and clear. She stepped up to join him on the next riser.

 _You don't deserve this, Phyllis. You're nothing more than my leavings._ A voice suddenly punctured her calm, a voice from the darkest corners of her mind, a voice that sounded exactly like Peter Coyle. She shook her head.

"Yes, I do," she said aloud.

"Pardon?" Joseph's forehead wrinkled in confusion.

"Sorry, Mr. Molesley, I meant that will do, just fine. Lovely, in fact," she reached out, squeezed his arm. Pictured walking with him, in the crisp air of a January morning, two days from now. Stopping and turning to him, reaching out, brushing her hand across his cheek, touching his much-loved face, at last.

 _This is something you cannot comprehend, Peter. You don't belong in my mind, or my heart, any more. There's not room for you, truly. Not in my life, and not in my head, either._

Joseph was still examining her face closely. There was a look in his eyes that, for a split second, made her wonder if this was it, if he was simply going to lean over, and kiss her, right here, between upstairs and down, in this grand house.

Then something metallic clattered from the kitchen below, followed by a string of colorful oaths by Mrs. Patmore. They both laughed, closer to sighs than actual expressions of mirth.

And each continued onward, in opposite directions.

oooOOOooo

Later than evening, she was bent over the gorgeous pearl-studded headpiece that Lady Edith would wear tomorrow when she became a bride, painstakingly ensuring not a single stone was missing, that the beautiful thing was utterly perfect.

At last, it was finally finished, and she set it gingerly on the worktable. Flexed her fingers gently, massaging them. She always took special care of her hands, which were her livelihood, and which added so much happiness to her life, with what they could create. Her machine, as much as she loved it, wasn't right for every task.

She opened her sewing and notions kit, carefully repacking her supplies, which were scattered across the table. It was late, and very few others were awake. Mr. Molesley had stopped in to say goodnight about thirty minutes ago, and she thought of him, somewhere in the men's quarters, sleeping soundly.

Thought of what it might feel like, to lay beside him, wrap her arm around his slumber-warmed middle. Smell the resting, masculine scent of him. And then…just sleep, with her cheek pressed against the rise and fall of his back.

She rubbed her hands over her face. It was time to rest, now that Lady Edith's headdress was completed. She looked tiredly down at her kit, ensuring everything was in its proper place. Looked at the tight coils of thread, which made her think of something…

The first time she'd read _Jane Eyre,_ her eyes had been swollen from weeping. Too much of what the fictional governess had endured resonated deeply in her, both the desire to be whole, in and of herself, and the desire to be loved.

She had poured over the scene when Rochester tells Jane he is leaving. The young woman replies with the tale of a thread, connecting the two of them, high under her ribcage, near her heart. As a seamstress, she had always loved that image: the threads that connected two people, lovers. But she'd never _experienced_ it, not really, until now.

She wasn't worried the thread would snap, as Jane had. No, she simply felt the powerful tug of it, in her chest, her heart. That while she wasn't actually there, holding onto him as he slept, her heart beat in the same rhythm as his sleeping breath.

She had been lonely, solitary, for so much of her life. Including when she had been in Peter Coyle's arms. And yet, without touching her, Joseph Molesley made her feel like she'd not be alone again, as long as he was around.


	5. Again, From the Ashes

**Chapter 5 – From the Ashes, Again**

 **A/N: This is IT you guys! I love, love, love writing this 'ship, so much, but I am going to take a short break from Baxley and get back to my first love, Chelsie, for a bit. I have and love all of your prompts and plan on working on them in the coming weeks.**

 **What this last chapter is about, for me, is that life is such a wonderful mix of planning and chance. We must be responsible for creating our own destiny, but the shape of it, how it plays out, is flexible, fluid.**

 **Thank you so much for reading this little story!**

 **~CeeCee**

 **Just after Midnight, New Year's 1926**

 **Servants' Hall, Downton Abbey**

As Mrs. Hughes' pleasant, strong alto voice burst forth with the old tune, with her husband looking admiringly on and the rest of them slowly joining her, she felt Joseph's hand grasp hers, palm to palm. Then, with the slightest pressure, he laced his fingers through hers. She didn't react outwardly, save to squeeze his fingers tightly in response.

 _A New Year. A time to look forward, to move forward…_ she smiled, sipped her punch, sang quietly along, preferring to listen to Joseph's enthusiastic efforts. Once the housekeeper's tune ended, and the staff and their guests began milling about again. His hand gave hers another, final squeeze, then he let go.

She glanced over at him. He met her gaze and grinned.

"Miss Baxter," he cleared his throat, continued. "They'll be winding down upstairs shortly, I'm guessing, and then it'll be back to work for us for a while tonight. I was wondering, if…"

"I'll be waiting to say goodnight you, Mr. Molesley, before I retire, right in this very room," her heart raced. _This is it._ "I'd like to go speak to Mr. Barrow for a few minutes. I'll see you shortly, then?" He nodded, and she drifted off to where Thomas Barrow was standing, feeling somehow warm and cold at the same time.

"Happy New Year, Mr. Barrow," she greeted him, placed a kiss on his cheek. He looked as if his time away from Downton had taken something essential from him, but she could see something glimmering in his dark eyes. It looked like hope.

"Thank you, Miss Baxter, the same to you. I am even more flattered that you left Mr. Molesley's side to wish me so," there was teasing in his voice, but it was gentle.

"The best thing about Mr. Molesley, is he will be there, I think, always, for me to return to," she spoke plainly. There was no need to hide anything anymore.

"He's a good man," Thomas responded, and it surprised her. "I thought him a fool for a very long time, and I think maybe he _was_ one. Maybe _he_ thought _himself_ a fool. He doesn't seem to, any longer. And good on him."

"I think…I think, sometimes, our own opinions of ourselves are the most difficult to change," she replied.

Thomas looked down at her for a long moment, then something in his haunted expression softened. "I believe you're right, Miss Baxter."

"You belong back here, at Downton, Mr. Barrow. And you'll be happy here, I think, if you remember that," she answered.

"It's a chance I'd not have even wished for, Miss Baxter, as it was impossible, to me," he replied, and she saw tears shining in his eyes. "I'd not wish for Mr. Carson's ill health for anything, and, to be certain, I'll need his guidance for some time to come. Not to just do _things_ correctly, but to work with _people_ well. I've been given a second chance, Miss Baxter, and I plan on respecting that."

"We'll all help you, Mr. Barrow, if you let us. If you let _me_ ," she answered, searched for Joseph with her eyes. He was speaking with Daisy, Mrs. Patmore and Mr. Mason. He caught her gaze, and grinned. "There's far more that's possible than I ever realized, I think."

"I believe you're right, Miss Baxter," his eyes moved between her and Joseph. "I'd not expected – nor believe I _deserved –_ a friend such as yourself, for example."

Her heart filled with warmth. _Change is possible…_ She looked back up at him, grinned.

"I remember the day I met you. Franny brought you from your crib, hand you to me," she giggled a little, remembering the toddler he'd been. "You were the sweetest baby I ever clapped eyes on, even if your nappy was soaked." She giggled harder at the expression on his face.

"Miss Baxter, you can hardly speak of the butler of Downton in that manner," his mouth was twitching upward into a smile.

"I suppose you're right, Mr. Barrow," she replied. "But I can remember the moment I met my _friend,_ can't I?"

"I guess you can, at that, Miss Baxter."

oooOOOooo

 _A New Year…_ he thought, as he and Andy began clearing champagne flutes, discarded serviettes, and other celebratory debris from the dining room, slowly working their way towards the great hall. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes had left for their cottage shortly after midnight, and Thomas Barrow was supervising the end-of-the-evening tasks the staff necessarily had to carry out.

As distracted as he was by the memory of Phyllis Baxter's hand in his, he could see how content the man looked, the shadows he'd brought with him earlier today already dissipating. Joseph hadn't always gotten on with him, but he could appreciate that anyone – even Thomas Barrow – could change, for the better.

He thought of Phyllis' fingers, laced through his, as the old year became the new. And that she would be waiting for him, or he for her, once their work was finished in these early morning hours, in the quiet of the servants' hall. The rest of the staff would be off to bed, or gone. And then, perhaps, he would get that quiet moment he'd been waiting for.

"That's it then, Mr. Molesley," Andy's pleasant but tired voice cut through his reverie. "I'll bring these down, then, let Mr. Barrow we're done?"

"Yes, please do, Andy," he replied. "I'll finish up in the hall, make sure it's in tiptop shape." He paused, deciding he could tease the younger man a little. "And if you hurry, maybe you'll get a chance to say goodnight to Daisy, before she finishes up in the kitchen."

"Indeed I might, Mr. Molesley," the other footman flushed, but grinned the way the young and the infatuated tend to. "Thank you, Mr. Molesley, for all your help this week. It's been good working with you again." He nodded, and headed for the stairway leading to the downstairs.

Joseph grinned at his retreating figure, then carefully navigated the great hall, ensuring everything was in the proper place, for once really appreciating the minutiae that came with working a grand house like this, perhaps because he knew it was over, after this evening.

He'd not experience the giddy, topsy-turvy sensation of running unexpectedly into Phyllis Baxter around the next corner or on the stairs; but he was hoping by tomorrow afternoon, he'd not have to rely on chance to be seeing her, often and always, for years to come.

He patted his pocket which held the delicate opal ring, a tiny band of gold with a glowing stone. He finally began extinguishing the electric chandeliers, one by one, and the smaller lamps, until most of the light in the grand room came from the grand, gorgeous Christmas tree, twinkling with fairy lights.

It was so beautiful, with its swathes of ribbon and delicate glass ornaments, he was loath to step behind and pull the cord quite yet, to douse the glow of the tiny specks of light. He stood there for a few moments, just gazing up at it, the massive house still and quiet around him.

A sound no more than a whisper broke into his thoughts. He turned. Phyllis Baxter was coming down the stairs, from the Countess' room. She saw him and her face broke into a smile. She walked over to him, stood by his side in the dim beauty of the hall.

Neither of them spoke for a few moments, but she reached out and took his hand, lacing her fingers through his again.

"It's so beautiful, isn't it?" She finally said.

"It is," he answered, then turned towards her, his heart pounding like a drum in his throat. "But _you,_ Miss Baxter, are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

She let out a small, happy sound and stepped closer to him, so he could feel the warmth radiating off her body, pulsing in time to the rush of blood in his own chest.

This would not wait for a planned encounter in the servants' hall, no. Their hands became untwined, as hers reached up, around his neck, and his sought out the rise and fall of her breath, beneath the waist of her dark dress.

He placed his other hand on her face, and she closed her eyes, pressed her cheek against his palm. Two tears escaped and rolls down her cheeks. He brushed them away, oh so gently, relishing in the softness of her skin. She opened them, her gaze aflame, inches away. She smiled.

"Joseph," she said. It was like a benediction. "Joseph Molesley." And her thumb pressed softly against his own cheek.

At last, he leaned in, and kissed her, losing himself in the taste and smell and feeling of her. _At last, at last, at last…_

The tree glimmered before them, and in his pocket, the ring glimmered as well, like the promise they were making right now.


End file.
